The Demon
by Ninjer-8492
Summary: Set immediately after the war of Exar Kun, a traumatized Veteran mysteriously embued with superhuman strength finds herself trapped in a bargain with a demonic Sith Lady on her farm, and must aid in her schemes while evading the attention of Republic Black Operatives, and battling her own trauma, electrophobia and a number of other dangers. Heavy AU and OC
1. The Veteran

The following is an excerpt from a set of children's stories concerning Sith Lore)

An old man approached Darth Sangraal on her mountain retreat, and found the Regenerator meditating in contemplation of her existence.

And the old man said 'I seek wisdom'

Sangraal smiled at the old man, for wisdom was a thing she both had an abundance of and mocked herself for.

'I have wisdom, but it may not be a thing you find useful' The Dark Sage cooed. 'Speak unto me. What do you seek?'

'My son has fallen and become your disciple.' the old man said bitterly.

'My condolences' she remarked. 'But I have need of disciples'

'How might I draw him away? The old man asked

Sangraal pondered this for a moment. "If you would draw him from me, simply give your son something I cannot,' she answered finally, for she was well known for her willingness to answer an enemy.

"And what would that be?" the old man pondered.

Sangraal looked at the old man in bemusement. 'Is it not obvious? Tell him why you yourself stopped serving me...if you have the nerve.'

The old man departed and neither troubled her nor his son any further.

(Excerpt from 'Allegories of the Dark Lady of Regeneration')

...

Coruscant, Great Sith War

The sky was shrouded in tears of fire. The Jedi Temple had still not stopped the Anti-spacecraft fire since the Interdictor's had set up orbit.

The leader of the blue-armored Senate Commandoes, a female in full gear, hefted her great Vibro-Claymore and awaited the attack just outside the doors of the Chancellors Office. The Mandalorians had been trying to shut down the Forcefield protecting it for the past minute. They'd be through in seconds.

The other Commandoes hefted their repeaters. The invasion so far was going badly and everyone knew it. The only reason the Republic hadn't tried to discuss terms was because the Jedi Temple and it's inhabitants were still fighting brutally. That and any talk of surrender was dismissed by the government: The Republic had long since stated it's intent to fight to the bitter end, and threatened to take all their enemies with them in the process. So far they had proved more than willing to make good on that threat: Mandalore had recently been assassinated by a Republic developed bioweapon...along with eighty percent of the inhabitants of Mandalore's namesake world and the survivors of that attack had sworn not to stop until the Republic was utterly destroyed this time, avenging the string of humiliating losses in the past.

The Commander counted at least a dozen surviving commandos. They had acquitted themselves valiantly. None could call them cowards. Not after the horrendous losses they endured evacuating surviving politicians from the Exo-suit equipped Mandalorian Special Forces.

The Commander was clad in the dark blue durasteel armor typical of the senate's defenders. Her head concealed by a full helm adorned with a metal, Mohawk like crest. An armor weave cape draped her shoulders as she held her claymore in front of her with both hands, awaiting the breach. The others defending the supreme chancellor were armed with assault blasters and vibrodaggers.

The sparks from the torches on the other side of the door traveled up the seam of the sealed door. She hefted her sword above her head. Exar Kun had murdered the Chancellor, and most of an in Senate session, and she and her men had sacrificed their own escape getting what few senators remained in hiding so as to maintain Continuity of Government. Her men had been beaten, hammered, reduced to a handful now held up in the late Chancellor's office.

"DEATH OR GLORY!" The Commander shouted, and those under her command shouted the same as the doors blew open. The Mandalorians came in shooting and the commander charged, her sword crashing through the neck of one Mandalorian while she backhanded another so hard he flew into his fellows, and her sword came up for a vertical slice through the relatively unarmored groin of the next. Her free hand stopped one of the armored warriors from completing an attack with his wrist blades, ruthlessly breaking the arm with a simple rough twist before beheading him also, kicking his body into the wall close by. The Mandalorians fired, winging her in the shoulder but she powered through it, charging into the crowd and leaping. The warriors corrected, firing into the air, but she had already completed the landing, and her sword tore through two more as she slipped into a battle madness, violently swinging her blade at everyone that wasn't republic, the sword sang menacingly through the air, slashing through armor mounted muscle as her men then advanced, firing at other Mandalorians trying to get into the room, some tackling Mandalorians who got too close to The Commander, who found herself under assault from two armed with Vibroswords, who furiously slashed at her arms. She retreated, parrying savage blows that aimed at her shoulders and waist before her attackers were downed by shots from her men. She and one of the other commandos teamed up and took point, her leading, wondering why the firing had suddenly stopped.

The bolt of lightning that hit her man answered that. He was covered in black and red tattoos, a sneer on his face.

The Commander saw only blazing purple white...

...

...and the Veteran snapped awake in her bed, heaving in gulps of air, remembering the lightning, the pain...

A real leg swung out of the bed, followed by a metal one and the Veteran rose stumbling through the dark of her house, feeling her way through the pitch black until the familiar archways of her bathroom touched the tips of her fingers, and she lit the oil lantern in her bathroom.

She stared in the mirror, dirty brown hair hanging over her eyes. She stared at the discolored patches of synthetic flesh that had been grafted to her face and arms and parts of her shoulder and chest. Soft beige met chalk white at the seams. The synthskin functioned perfectly, yet she still felt phantom itching on occasion.

It was the nightmares and seizures that were the real problem. Turns out being violently electrocuted by a Sith Lord has long term health problems attached. Like developing a pathological fear of electricity.

The Veteran stared at herself some more, trying to get her bearings. Her face was rounded at the cheeks, but with a somewhat narrow chin. Her nose was small, narrow, and she was tall. She got her breathing under control eventually, but she knew she wasn't going to sleep any more.

She took the lantern and began to travel downstairs, down to her primitive wood-fired stove to boil some tea.

The Veteran was working her small acre of crops in the barely lit dawn hours in the grain fields of planet Castell. She'd chosen to construct her farm house by hand out here in the isolated wilderness, surrounded by endless golden grain fields and flowers, cut by only a single well tread dirt road that went past the house, which was of a simple design of wood and glass, with a primitive shingled roof. A simple steel hand scythe in her grip cut down the grapes she was growing, preparing to process them for fermentation.

"Commander?" called out a man's voice in the distance.

The Veteran didn't look up from her harvesting. "You with Disability Services?" she called out, her accent coarse and tone deep.

The man, a dark skinned, bald human with green eyes, clad in a yellow and red officers uniform, opened the crude, waist level door of the fence set up around her home. "Captain Von Delri, at your service ma'am. I, uh, am here to speak to you regarding the claim you filed at the Veteran affairs office. I would have contacted you over a terminal, but you apparently don't own one."

"I prefer people to look me in the eye when they're gonna tell me 'No'."

"We are aware that your nightmares have increased, but giving you access to the type of medication you've requested isn't covered by republic insurance policies. They also carry significant health risks," Captain Delri explained carefully, respectfully. "It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the Service has to turn down your request. We are perfectly happy to recommend alternative forms of therapy, give you access to support groups for returning soldiers-"

"I don't need to listen to a bunch of people whine about what _they_ had to do to survive. I saw what they had to do, they don't need to tell me," The Veteran replied with a snort, putting a bundle of grapes in a basket next to her. "And I don't need no therapy animal. I don't need no other mouths to feed. You guys ain't even paid me fully for all the 'Unofficial' stuff I was involved in."

She rose, clad in plain brown slacks and boots, with a full sleeved plaid shirt, hefting her basket of grapes to her nearby barn, where the other barrels of wine were maturing.

"The Republic is still recovering from a devastating war with two longtime foes. We barely won-resources are scarce still."

"Your problem, not mine. I just fought in it," she replied exhaustedly.

"May I ask how your electrophobia treatments are progressing?"

"Fine. I'm almost ready to use a flashlight," she lied.

"Your doctor says you haven't shown for your last three appointments."

"Was busy," she lied, going back to the second bush of grapes and returning to cutting.

"He can't help you if you don't show up, Commander."

"Not a Commander," The Veteran replied tersely. "Not anymore."

"They say your men would still follow you if you asked it."

The Veteran didn't look away from her grapes. "News to me, Captain," she responded quietly.

"I am trying to help you, Ma'am."

"Get me something stronger to kill these nightmares and I'll buy that."

"The isolation isn't doing you much favors either. Have you contacted any relatives?"

"No," The Veteran answered. "They got problems of their own. Don't need mine."

"That's not a healthy attitude," Delri snapped. "Cutting yourself off from the world won't silence the Demons in your heart. The Demons will only get louder in the silence. The Demons will be in your home, in yourself, until you excise them."

The Veteran turned to look at him. "We done yet?" her look was piercing. The noon sunlight made the synth skin glow.

Delri frowned. "Yeah. For now."

The Veteran went back to her harvesting as Captain Delri walked down the dirt road to the closest spaceport.

...

The Veteran sat on her front porch, and drank her unwatered wine, watching the sun go down. Her eyes had a glaze to them, her body almost numb. The wine cup slipped from her hand, spilling thick, dark red liquid on the unpainted wood beneath her. She barely stirred, only noticing the thick liquid as it ran through an incline, a small imperfection in the way she had worked the material. She watched it slowly work a way down the hand made steps, saw a small, diffused reflection of her face in the waning light.

The Veteran thought about rising. Thought about it. Decided against it. Too numb. Too tired. She She continued to watch it for the sake of watching it.

It dripped down one step, a few stains at first, then the rest started to pour and join the stains on the first step. The Veteran's eyes drooped. Fluttered.

"Prices, Soldier. Prices for everything."

The Veteran, upon hearing those words, was out of her seat, heart pounding. Those words. She'd heard those words, somewhere. She couldn't remember where though. A surprising chill cut through the numb. It was night. She hadn't noticed the sun go down. She saw a campfire in the distance. A short walk from her home. She hadn't noticed that either.

She stumbled back into her home, grabbed her hunting Slugthrower, a double barreled rifle, hefted it uneasily, and unsteadily headed down the front steps of her house. She noticed a trail of wine on her chin and wiped it off, hefting her gun clumsily at the figure in silken gray wraps, sitting on a log, watching the fire. She could not see his face, it was as shrouded as the rest of his thin, wiry body.

"Come. Sit." the breathy, low voice of the man said, bidding her to a nearby log.

"Why'd you set up so close to my house?" The Veteran asked, her speech labored.

"I did not set up on your property. Just outside it," the figure said. "I didn't see the problem."

"You're too close."

"Isn't that the truth for everyone where I am concerned," the figure noted dryly, tossing a dead twig to the flame.

"Everyone?"

"Figure of speech, dear."

"Ain't no figure I been introduced to," the Veteran said with a slight growl, the numbness falling away a bit. "You got yer' face all hid. Why?"

"Definition," the figure answered, tossing another twig to the flame. "I'm told the smell of burning wood is pleasant. Is it pleasant for you?"

"Show me your face."

"We both know there is nothing underneath here, Soldier."

"Hells that mean?"

"Prices. That's what I told you that day. Always prices."

"We met somewhere?" The Veteran asked, a mortal tremble in her spine shaking the aim in arms already swayed by unwatered wine.

"We met every time you shoved your sword through bone and sinew. Every time your hand crushed another's throat. Every time your knuckles pounded through a skull so hard the brains came out of the ears."

"I'm not proud of those things," the Veteran said quickly, knowing who she spoke to now. "Didn't know I was so bad you'd show up in person to collect."

She threw the rifle aside. "Will it hurt, where I'm going?"

"So eager to go?"

"No. But I ain't no coward. Karma's a Schutta. What Daddy said, anyway."

"I'm not here to collect you."

A pause. "Am I going to Hell? For the things I done?"

"Not my purview. I just collect."

The Veteran sat on the previously offered log. She frowned. "Where are the stars? Can't see no stars."

"You've been drinking unwatered wine. Nobody's vision works right after unwatered wine," the figure said. "Let's talk price, Soldier."

"What price?"

"I'm not surprised you don't remember," The Figure said, passing a twig to her. She hesitated before taking it, tossing it to the flame. Sparks erupted from it as the fire ate through the remaining resin in the twig. "Few remember me speaking to them. You probably convinced yourself it was a nightmare. That and you'd taken a few bolts of lightning."

"The hell kinda deal we make?" The Veteran grumbled.

"It'll make sense as events progress," the Figure answered. "Right now though, I would like you to do something for me. I would like you to walk your wine off. Take a stroll through the fields."

"Why?"

"It's part of your price," the Figure explained.

The Veteran pulled herself up wearily, feeling the wine burning in her stomach.

"I'm terrified," she confessed, shaking.

"Again, understandable. You have good reason to be," the Figure replied. "Take your rifle with you."

The Figure waved his hand and the fire went out. The stars appeared in the Sky and the Veteran still shook, knowing she was alone yet not alone.

With still trembling hands, she grabbed her rifle, and proceeded to the thick grain fields. The adrenaline and fear of encountering who she encountered making the Alcohol worse as she stumbled deeper into forbidding grains.

...

The Veteran couldn't quite feel the chill wind touching bare skin on her arms. Her metal foot hit the grain plants with a noticeable crunch. The flesh foot was softer, more cautious, and more numb. The metal leg was one she still hadn't gotten use to.

She held the rifle as steady as possible. She was doing terribly at that. Beyond terrible. The rifle swayed like a soft branch in a gust of wind.

The Veteran forced herself to concentrate. The wine made everything harder. She forced herself to stop shaking.

She heard voices in the distance. Her numbed mind had to struggle for a few seconds to make a coherent decision. It was a chant, a harsh language unknown to her. She smelled smoke. She smelled blood and burning ozone.

The latter smell sent her into fits of quick breathing. She remembered the burning pain of lightning, the smell of oxygen vaporizing from the strength of it...was there electricity around?

She didn't have to ask herself what she would do. If she saw so much as an arc of it, she would run, as fast as her legs could carry her. She would run and hide in her house. She would lock the door and not come out for days if she had to.

This was stupid, a part of her sneered in her head. She was probably so drunk she had imagined that campfire meeting. And now she was imagining all of this.

She stepped into a clearing in the grain fields. A pentagram had been burned into the ground. And men in black robes and bone white masks stood in a circle around it. In a dark night, they looked darker still.

She stumbled backward, fell over, crunched the plants loudly. She was running through the fields behind her a few seconds later. She knew who they were. She didn't have to ask. She knew Sith when she saw them. She'd been cooked by one hard enough that it would have been impossible for her NOT to recognize what they were.

The Veteran didn't know what they were doing here. And she didn't care. Her only concern was saving her own skin in her drunken stupor. She didn't even know where she was running, having lost sense of her orientation in her panicked escape.

The fist came from the left. The alcohol dulled it, but she was sent hurling backward all the same.

Her gun went off. She heard someone yell but she didn't care where it came from. She wanted to live. She scrambled up and as soon as someone came close, she reacted.

Her hand shot out, clutching her victim by the throat. She never felt the effort to lift him up by the neck, because she was too busy casually flinging him upward, even as she broke the neck with the ease of snapping a cracker in half. No scream, just an exhale and a gagging sound from a crushed trachea.

Fear making her body prickle everywhere in a sensation that unpleasantly reminded her of electricity, The Veteran caught the dead body by a leg as it fell, flinging it into a larger, burlier Sith in armored black robes, the corpse impacting with enough force that the larger, taller man whose features were still hooded, was sent flying backward into the wheat.

The snap hiss and red glow behind her made her wheel around, catching a descending pair of hands and crushing them both so fast and hard she felt broken bone and smashed sinew burst through the skin between her fingers from her attacker. His shrieks of agony only filled her with further panic. A crude blow from a closed fist caved in his chest and left a visible crater as he fell dead into blonde wheat.

She saw her gun, grabbed it and ran, putting a bullet in another Sith as the robed figure brandished a purple lightsaber to her right, about to strike. The crackle of lightning made her freeze everywhere, made her freeze so hard her muscles hurt as a bolt shot past her.

She was back at the chancellor's office, felt the burnt smell of ozone in her soul as her body seized up. She choked, the panic attack coming fast. Months of therapy, and she couldn't even go near a lit bulb. She hated anything with electricity, because with it came the risk of being shocked. Even static electricity from her clothing could cause a panic attack. She was face down in the blackness of the grass, terrified. Unable to move. The Ozone smell was everywhere. Always everywhere.

Still paralyzed by the encounter, even though none of the lightning had actually hit her, The Veteran could not even resist as a pair of arms turned her over, forcing her to look at the hooded shadow brandishing a lightsaber above her. In spite of her paralysis, The Veteran still managed to send spittle towards him. The hooded figure merely laughed and brought a boot down on her face.

...

"Should we kill her?"

"After that display? We should probably see if she can be put under contract," the Hooded Sith, a female, answered her male peer jokingly.

"Why has the Master ordered she be spared?"

"The Master has a use, obviously."

"To what end? I do not understand why we are to perform the ressurection ritual here. There were a dozen safer places this could have been done," the male Sith complained.

There was only the cold gust of wind and the night air, yet the male Sith took a more deferential tone and posture as he heard the silent voice of the Master in the night.

"I shall question it no further," the Sith spoke quickly, an edge of fear in his tone.

The Master's voice carried through the breeze over to the unconscious woman that had killed three of their men. Every Sith present was instantly aware that to harm the woman would incur terrible wrath upon themselves. Their master was difficult to anger, but once one was successful it was generally a good idea to run.

"Is everything prepared?" The head Sith asked.

"The Ritual is ready to perform. We must do so now, before it hits midnight. We should have been done an hour ago-" the previously chastised Sith pointed out in the darkness of the wheat field.

The Master's voice carried a hint of warning in the wind.

The Sith bowed his head, not understanding at all why the Ritual had been delayed so long by the Master. "Please excuse my impatient nature, My Master."

The Sith present began to drag the unconscious Veteran aside, away from the Ritual site.

"How could she have such ferocious strength?" one of the other female Sith remarked. "Did you see what she did to Amenus' wrists and chest?"

"Only other time I've ever seen anything like that was this beating I saw a wookiee bouncer give to a Gran. All three eye stalks caved in within two seconds. Trust me, this woman gets her hands on you, you're dead." the chastised Sith remarked as they deposited her in the grassy patch nearby.

The remaining Sith gathered in a circle around the bloody pentagram they had carved into the wheat field. They began to chant. The Master's voice rippled through the wind in ecstacy.

The Pentagram glowed red, bright, blood red. The wind swirled around them as one gathered the Organs they had harvested, dumping it into a pile so the Master could rework the genetic material through their magics.

Red lightning flashed from the sky, traveling down in an instant to the Pentagram. But instead of scorching the immediate area in wheat fueled fire, it gathered into the Pentagram itself. There was a scream, sharp and piercing, seemingly from everywhere. The Veteran jolted awake and froze as it all came back to her. She was still stiff from fear, but she forced herself up awkwardly. Had to get away. Had to run.

"Something is wrong!" one of them shouted.

The screaming came from everywhere, even as something started to coalesce in the middle of the Pentagram. The Veteran was running, running as fast as she could, hyperventilating, even as the red lightning flashed and surged, threatening to make her muscles lock up again. The lightning was everywhere, escaping it became her only priority. The crackle of it danced along her spine, and her adrenaline was all the worse for it. In her nigh-overwhelming panic, she saw the strange, gray covered man watching her from the distance for a split second as she ran past. She failed to see the log. She stumbled as she tripped, but catching herself.

The screaming grew louder and deafening, and then an explosion of red that she only caught a sliver of from the corner of her left eye alerted her to the...wave...of red energy screaming towards her. The Veteran didn't even have time to yell.

The world went black and all she felt was pain.

...

The Veteran shot up in the crushed remains of burnt wheat. It was dawn. The wheat fields around her were utterly burned, most stalks reduced to ash swirling around in a hot morning wind. She picked herself up, dusted herself off, and stared at the burnt ruin around her.

Hesitantly, she went forward. She needed her gun, and she had gotten the distinct feeling things hadn't gone as planned for the Sith. If she was lucky most of them were dead. If not, she would have to try and finish them off. No way the ones still alive weren't wounded. Not after that. Her fists clenched as she approached the circle of crushed wheat where the Pentagram had been created. The organs that were at the center were gone, a red smear trailing into the wheatfield from that center. The Sith present were dead, had been dead for hours. The corpses were as scorched as the wheat around them.

The Veteran spotted her rifle and sprinted for it. She snatched it up, opened the breech, took out the spent round, and snapped it shut.

The smoke wafted in front of her face as she went looking for whatever had made the trail...

She stumbled through a once golden field of wheat, a hangover from unwatered wine casting a slight numbness over her organic parts and a haze over her vision.

It was the primary irony of her situation...she could not hide from her phobia like she wanted. Her body was partly artificial, and thus powered by electronics. Consumption of alcohol helped her forget this fact. Most of the time. The trail was wet still and in the faint pale blue light of early dawn she could tell whatever had moved from the Pentagram had done so recently. She moved slowly into the taller grains. What had the fiends summoned?

Adrenaline and fear made the alcohol burn faster through her system, but not by much. Her metal foot crunched burnt wheat loudly, and she cursed its clunky nature. It dragged with annoying regularity also, and felt too heavy. All her years of service and that was the best disability could give her. A clunky old robot foot. She should have been a mechanic, like her cousin.

That was the other thing that drove her to drink: she did not feel whole. Parts in her, not all of them viewable with a medical scanner...were missing. And the gnaw of reaching for them had her on edge constantly these days. The Veteran felt her natural arm trembling and stopped it by sheer force of will. Sweat beaded on the natural parts of her skin.

The crunch of burnt and bloody wheat was all she heard in the grain fields in the early morning. She heard something move ahead of her in the wheat stalks. Her gun snapped straight forward as she drew a bead. She steadied her breathing. She moved as carefully, as quietly as she could. The mechanical whir in her artificial leg sent images of electric sparks into her brain, sending a chill up her spine. She felt her real skin develop goosebumps.

The blood trail grew redder and thicker as she moved along through the stalks. She heard nothing. She saw the stalks ahead of her soaked in blood. She braced herself and then slowly poked her rifle through the bloody stalks...

...an empty, dusty road greeted her. The road that led to her house, in fact.

She looked up and down the road. No blood. No footprints.

The Veteran's courage failed her again. Maybe she should take this as a sign and run while she could. After all, whatever had fled the area obviously hadn't cared at all about her still being in the area. Why should she? She wasn't a soldier any more. Let some other sucker handle it.

Taking the fortune of having found nothing for face value, The Veteran decided this had stopped being her problem when she lost the trail. Looking around, she decided to be smart and hoof it back to her house. She had more ammo and weapons there, and once she went into that panic shelter she had built herself under her house, it'd be six months, easy, before she came out from hiding.

The Veteran sprinted back to the ritual site, looking for the one she remembered shooting. She found him, and quickly took a dagger on the corpses belt and dug out what slug fragments she could find, before tossing the fragments into a nearby stream and going back onto the road after washing her hands and checking herself for blood. Her hands were caked with it, she realized, and she ended up washing her rifle in the water also when she realized it too had blood on it. Her clothes had light smears but fortunately few people lived out here. If she was lucky, she would make it home without running into anyone. She jogged on the road to her house. The sun was making everything brighter as the minutes crept by. She needed to get inside, fast.

The whine of distant shuttle engines made her pick up the pace, taking cover under a large tree with an impressive canopy of wide leaves. She crouched down in the tall grass, and waited, going prone. It was an attack shuttle. She waited until she spotted a black, flying wing shuttle with two laser cannons up front, close to the cockpit fly overhead at high speed. She began moving through the grass, quickly, stopping when she heard it making another pass overhead.

She waited longer this time, before moving again, not daring to get up. That could be Sith reinforcements.

So they weren't all dead. Damn.

It still wasn't her problem.

Not stopping to wonder why she had survived the initial encounter, The Veteran creapt through the grass again, moving from under the canopy of the tree, going a few dozen meters on her belly, stopping a few minutes, going a few dozen more, and repeating the pattern. Only when she rose again, saw she was about forty meters to her house, did she dare rise and sprint to it. She swiped the key to her house from under a rock near the front step, still seeing the spilled wine on it.

She scrambled to the front door, unlocking the primitive tumbler based system, she scrambled inside, slammed the door shut, and let out an exhale, collapsing onto the floor and curling into a fetal position, trembling, one hand still clutched on her rifle. She remained trembling, curled into a ball in her primitive house of wood and stone for the next ten minutes before overcoming her panic attack, and forcing herself to move. The panic shelter had a six month supply of food. She never told anyone about it. It was safe. She would hide in it and it would be safe. She would hide as long as she had to. It was hidden. She headed upstairs, the floorboards creaking with every step, gathered the box of ammunition for her rifle and a dagger on a desk next to her bed.

Her metal foot hit the steps with a heavy thud, and she clambered back down the steps, face stoic, but inwardly still on the verge of a panic-fueled breakdown. Had to hide from the Sith, had to get to safety.

She pulled up the rug in the middle of a sparse living room's floor, with a floor cut out attached underneath. She carefully headed down the trap door and made sure her feet hit each rung of the ladder as she closed the entrance over her. She set down her rifle, breathing in musty air from what was basically a supply pantry with a bed and guns, and went to light a candle from her supply.

She took a match, and struck it on her clothes, lighting a candle and placing it in a wroght iron holder, illuminating the room, revealing a bare, square room, with multiple shelves of food and non electric equipment only. Just essentials.

Before she could grab her rifle and cower next to her spare bed she turned when she heard the sound of shuffling behind her. She went white, and cold all over, stepping back in horror.

It stood, a bloodied skeleton, intestines and internal organs misshapen and burnt, pulsating and hanging loosely off the skeleton. A red glow from its eye sockets grew brighter as it stepped forward, the blood slick and wet, with a copper smell. The angle at which its head tilted gave the appearance of a rictus grin.

The Veteran stepped back more out of dumb terror than real instinct, backing all the way into a corner. No sound came out of her.

There was no sound from it either. No evil wheezing or monsterous hiss. It stood there, silent, its scrutiny worse than if it had simply charged, shrieking like a demon. It studied her. She didn't really do the same. It was more like she dared not take her eyes off it, lest it move. She was trembling uncontrollably at this point, terror sweat pouring down her face. She didn't even bother trying to use the gun. No gun was going to stop that at all.

It made no move, save to tilt its skull to one side in seeming curiosity. The candle light flickered between her and it. She was hyperventilating, still paralyzed with fear. What was it? Why didn't it just try to kill her? Did it have something even worse planned?

The beads of sweat eventually stung her eyes shut for an instant, when she opened them again it was standing in front of her.

A scream of horror at whatever was coming was cut short by a bloody, bony finger placed on her lips. A faint, dusty female voice escaped bloody teeth.

 _"Shhhhh. You'll wake the neighbors."_


	2. The Deal

The Veteran dared not move as the skeleton took its bloody finger away.

"Communications equipment was nowhere to be found. Are you completely isolated here?" It wheezed.

It took about fifty seconds before it actually registered to the former soldier that this abomination the Sith had conjured had asked a question.

"Yes."

"Poor?"

"Simple."

It stared. The Veteran wanted to go further away but the wall wouldn't let her.

The chuckle that escaped it was dry, wheezing, and utterly revolting.

"Simple," it heaved out. "You don't _look_ simple."

The Veteran said nothing at this.

"You live alone?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a name?"

"Nothing Memorable."

Another hideous chuckle.

"Fair enough, Memorable."

"Are you going to kill me?"

It stared, the red fire in its eye sockets, casting a nastier pallor over it's rictus-grin face.

"No. I have a use for you. For this place. But I must have Privacy. Secrecy. No one must learn what I am doing."

"How do I know you wouldn't just kill me once you get what you want? I'm simple, not stupid."

"I'm not going to waste my energy killing a farmer. Leaving would inconvenience me greatly, but eventually I would achieve my goal some other way. So I am forced to resort to the trade of Demons: How about a deal?"

The Veteran's instincts, along with every terrible story she had ever heard about making pacts with the servants of Perdition and how they ended immediately told her to refuse.

But before she could get a word out, she spotted behind the skeleton the gray-shrouded figure, standing, silently. She strongly doubted the skeleton noticed. Just as she strongly doubted her refusing would end things well between her and the figure.

Stomach twisting at the implications behind his presence, The Veteran decided to make a tactical decision. One she did not like, but the way the shrouded figure talked about prices...

"What deal?"

"There must be something you want. Something you desire greatly. What about your flesh? You clearly have no love for monetary gain. I have _great_ control over living tissue. I could coax your body into restoring itself once my task is complete."

"What would I be doing?" The Veteran asked, believing none of it.

"You would do what you have been doing...This is a vinyard, is it not?"

"Partly."

"You would deflect suspicion by acting normal. Being my...'Face'...for the moment."

"What makes my place so damn special?"

"Its steeped in the Dark Side. _..among other things_..."

The Veteran did not respond as she began to think.

Uncomfortably, she found the Demon's bargain seductive, but didn't think the bargain would be honored. And she was not about to open up and say what she really wanted.

"If I serve you...you do a service to be specified by me upon completion," The Veteran said, leaving it open ended.

The Skeleton stared. The Farmer was no fool.

"Deal."

The Veteran stood back up, still utterly terrified at how deep she had involved herself. The Skeleton did not move, merely continuing to observe her.

"I have a task for you. I must have flesh."

"What kind?"

"The meat of a wild animal. Bring it whole."

"Okay."

The Veteran was scrambling up the ladder, rifle slung over her clothes. She didn't dare look at it as she flipped the entrance to the basement shut.

She burst out of the front entrance of her home, collapsing into a heap on the dirt road outside it. The deep blues of early dawn were close to vanishing. She had maybe a half hour before the sun was fully visible.

Survival instincts kicked in. Complete one task, do not think about complications, she told herself. Focus.

She checked her ammo. She had one round in the gun, three more in her pocket. There were Corellian Deer in the grasslands south of the wheatfields. It wouldn't be too hard to drag it back.

The Veteran began to make a brisk pace down the road. The wheatfields cast an endless blond haze on either side of her, great thousand-year old trees in the distance making great patches of the sky green against a rose horizon. No birds tweeted. Just the sound of wheat shuffled by a light breeze. She stared straight ahead, focusing only on her task to keep from breaking down again.

She heard the whine of another attack shuttle flying overhead. Another black flying wing. She didn't recognize the model. They had to have seen her house as they flew overhead, but they didn't care. Either they were careless...

...or they were Republic.

She looked to the east, spotted another flying wing making a long turn in the sky as a message blared:

"ATTENTION REPUBLIC CITIZENS. CASTELL IS NOW UNDER TRAVEL LOCKDOWN. DO NOT BE ALARMED. WE ARE PURSUING A CRIMINAL."

The Veteran began to sweat cold at the implication. She didn't just have a demon inside her house...she had a demon the military might be looking for.

And if they caught her with it...

The Veteran began to swear violently under her breath.

The sun had risen fully by the time she reached the Grasslands. Should be one or two grazing, she surmised as she hefted her weapon, looking for prey, sneaking low into the tall grass.

It was another half hour of moving down wind before she spotted one of the dark green dear. A stag. Its pure white horns glimmered as the mist started to rise up.

She breathed slow, taking aim. The Stag suspected nothing, powerful muscles rippling as it grazed, moving from place to place. One heartbeat. Two.

Her gunsight fell directly on its head.

The mechanical whir of her leg brought the memory of ozone to her nose, sparks flashing in her mind as she accidentally pulled the trigger.

The shot went wild, hitting a tree as the stag went galloping off, alerted.

The Veteran rolled over on the Grass, looking at a sky the color of a robin's egg.

She exhaled, breathed slowly, in an out, even as the whir in her legs reminded her of electricity, and the possibility of being shocked. She struggled to keep from panicking. She was not successful.

"She's good for the deal, in case you are wondering."

The Veteran shot up, staring at the Gray Shrouded figure.

"What the _hell have you gotten me in?!_ "

"We made a deal. Services were promised."

"What kind of deal?" The Veteran snarled, the weight of her situation provoking something close to an anxiety attack.

"You were dying. Slowly being electrocuted to death. You asked for the lives of your men to be saved. You had little of value to me to pay for that request. I stipulated that you would render aid to the creature in your house.

"Why that creature?"

"That is not for you to understand. You need only aid it, then your services will be completed and our transaction fulfilled. Withdraw from the agreement, and you and your men shall drop dead instantly."

"Those are almost certainly black ops shuttles flying through the sky! This place is gonna be crawling with military assassins soon. Maybe even _Jedi_. What the hell am I supposed to do when they come looking for that monster?!"

"You have the advantage. No one knows you were present. And no one has any indication of where your guest may have gone. As long as you are smart, you will evade detection," the Figure calmly stated.

"Its not just the military. Does that creature have enemies?"

"Many."

" _Will they come looking for it?_ " she asked tersely. "No way that thing would have asked for my help if it wasn't in deep poodoo. Someone messed up how it was summoned."

"There is a possibility of more dangerous foes being drawn here thanks to the military," the Figure admitted, unphased.

The Veteran got in the Figure's face. "What is it you have me serving?" She snarled.

The Figure gave no reaction.

"If you would know, then go to the rolling hills to the south. An old man lives there. He knows what you seek," the shrouded man answered.

The Veteran blinked, and the Figure in the gray shroud was gone.

She'd find the old man later, right now she had to get that creature its meat.

It was a half hour before she found another stag. The Deer's green coat was surrounded by morning mist rising off a mound of wild flowers. Its pure white horns were a thick arrangement of antlers with short, protruding antler spurs on each main horn. It was big. A Male.

She felt bad for it. She usually hunted smaller prey, but Castell's flying squirrels and saffron wheatfield wolves had migrated east because it had just turned autumn. It got chilly in these parts during autumn.

She took aim with her rifle as she went prone in the grass, the end of her rifle poking through the grass stalks. She desperately tried to ignore any sound her mechanical parts made.

She took a breath and held it. The trigger pulled, and the deer fell.

She scrambled up, jogging over to it. The Deer huffed, kicked a little, bleeding out.

Nauseated at its eventual fate, The Veteran shot it again, and it was dead. She waited a few minutes so its brain could eventually catch up to the body, before she knealt down, feeling the fur. It'd make for a good winter blanket.

Instead, it was going to that disgusting thing hiding in her panic room.

"Salutations, friend!"

The Veteran's head snapped around. It was a portly middle aged man, dressed in a blue set of civilian robes. He was balding, had a crown of brown on the sides, with a great, bushy brown mustache and large round face with rosy cheeks. He had beady blue eyes and a jolly smile.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Castell Marshals, ma'am. I'm Bonny. Bonny Vor. Hell of a mornin', ain't it?" He asked enthusiastically with that relaxed, smooth Castell accent.

"It's bright."

"Got yourself some good game there! Big one at that!" The Marshall observed. "Might want to step back though, so you don't get blood on your clothes there."

"Yeah, I was a little close. Didn't get it cleanly the first time." The Veteran answered, eyes scanning Vor, automatically knowing the best, fastest way to kill him. It was involuntary. She even knew exactly what he would look like in death, depending on the method. She hated this about herself.

"Aww, poor thing."

"Yeah."

"Ma'am, it's my unfortunate duty to inform you that due to the Travel Lockdown the Republic declared on Castell, the Marshalls have been given authority to...well...comb the hills."

"Was that what that shuttle was screaming earlier?" She asked, eyes sliding to the deer and its infernal fate.

"Oh, yes. There's a very dangerous criminal, ma'am. Very dangerous. We're advising everyone to stay indoors until they're caught," Bonny answered, hitching his thumbs into his belt. "I'd be happy to escort you back to your home."

"No need. I can make my way."

"Ma'am, before you go, I was hoping you could tell me if you heard anything strange. Some of your neighbors in the redwoods west of here reported a strange howling coming from this general area. Did you see or hear anything strange last night?"

"I was drunk. Very drunk. Passed out on my front porch. Woke up around sunset and went inside, passed out. Slept all night."

"Celebrating?"

"No."

"I don't suppose anyone can corroborate your location last night."

"People live so far apart from each other in these parts, its rare when we meet."

"So that's a no?"

"That's a no."

"By the way, I never got your name..." Bonny trailed in a friendly manner.

The Veteran handed him her wallet. He flipped the brown wallet open.

"Huh, that's a pretty name. You live on Castell long?"

"Three years."

"You've got such a pretty name. Why not just say it out loud when I asked?"

"There's power in names. You don't say them casually."

"Religious?"

"Superstitious."

"I see. Well, I'll try not to use your name if it bothers you."

"Thank you," she said politely, stoically.

"You sure you don't need any help with your kill?"

"I'm good."

"I see, well, good day then, Ma'am."

"Likewise."

"Remember! Get inside soon! The Military is gonna be in these parts pretty quick!" Bonny called out as he began walking south, to the municipal nerve center of the Colony.

The Veteran sighed, before squatting and lifting the heavy carcass like it was nothing and began a slow walk back home.

And that monster.

Upon getting in the front door, The Veteran dumped the heavy carcass on the rough wooden floor, heading over to the concealed entrance to her panic shelter, pulling the entrance open. She saw only its flaming red eyes gazing from below.

"I've got your meat."

"Excellent," it wheezed. "Give it to me."

"I might have to break the antlers off to fit it down there. Will that be alright?"

"No problem."

The Veteran casually snapped the antlers off cleanly, and then slid the carcass down there."

"Need anything else?" The Veteran inquired.

"No. That will be all," the monster replied. "When I have need, I will inform you."

As soon as the monster said that, the Veteran was already closing the entrance. She went upstairs, as far away from that creature as possible. She headed to the toilet and vomited from stress. Than she went to bed with her rifle and lay trembling in it.

***

The Skeleton painstakingly tore the beautiful animal open with a hunting knife it had found on the shelf nearby. First came the internal organs. Then samples of muscle and fat. Then a rib.

The Summoning had gone wrong. Utterly sabotaged. The creature had not been this vulnerable in centuries.

It was still amazed the woman hadn't fired. Amazed and lucky.

It was mortal. If it died now, there would be no next ressurection. That woman had been as close as anyone had ever gotten to killing it for good.

The Demon it was merged with had been put to sleep following the botched summoning. It had access to some of its strength, but not its ressurective ability, nor its ability to reverse wounds in seconds.

But it still had privileged access to the knowledge of the Saint Carrida Hemato-Codex. And even without the Demon's nigh-overwhelming power, it had still been a very skilled Jedi Sage, once upon a time.

The Pentagram was drawn on the south wall, the flame script of the Codex's Healing Formulas encircling it, drawn from right to left, reciting forbidden things in quiet whispers that warped and distorted the environment in a way only it could observe.

The muscles it had cut out of the deer began to twitch and move, slithering onto already bloody thigh bone and growing, twisting and rewriting itself at the molecular level to its manipulator's aims.

The organs slithered into its ribcage, squishing, pushing around, bursting like boils and stretching out across the skeleton like a fine film, though slick and oozing. Veins grew and wired themselves. Hair began to grow on a nascent scalp.

As flesh grew, its emotions came back more, until its sense of playfulness was alive and well. It was infuriated also, and vowed that whoever had dared sabotage her ressurection would suffer dearly.

The spell worked slowly. Its flesh would not be complete for a few hours. Once it had a full body, its chances would be better, but it would still be vulnerable.

And the Farmer still needed to do what it wanted willingly. The Farmer could not be coerced, she had to know everything, and still give permission.

If only it could properly broach the subject...

***

The Veteran didn't realize she had fallen asleep until her eyes had opened. It felt like noon.

Groggy, she rose, checked her rifle. Both empty cartridges. She removed them and put two more in from a nearby box of ammo. She clicked the breech shut and began to make her way downstairs.

"I have to say...I like your house. Very rustic," called out a soft, seductive sounding voice, that had a hint of an accent.

The Veteran stared. She was naked, her back to her, sitting at her coffee table. Sunlight poking through the roof of the darkened home hit the curvy figure's hourglass frame, which had caramel colored skin.

The Veteran did not respond. The damn thing had fixed itself. The former soldier slowly, hesitantly drew closer to the coffee table, to get a good look.

She held her ground once she did, didn't jump back, didn't get sick.

The back was complete. Not the Front. The bloody ribcage was still fully exposed, and so was the spinal column, though the Veteran could see the tissues for the abdominal muscles and breasts being constructed, the beginner muscles weaving themselves through the clavicle bone and around what looked like a fully constructed Aorta.

The face wasn't complete either. The upper left and the nose of it still needed to be completed. But what was finished was the work of a master sculptor. It was scientifically beautiful, smooth and angular. Her lips were black, and her hair was jet black, in a messy, short partial coif. Her incomplete eye produced that unholy red fire from a slick and bloody eye socket. The other had an eyeball that was a slick, ruby sheen, and no pupils. Just red. Her lips were jet black. She looked to be in her early twenties.

"I do apologize for my incomplete state. You think _this_ is bad? Watch me try and put on eyeshadow some time," it joked.

"Who are you?"

The naked, incomplete Demon stood.

"I am Darth Sangraal. Dark Lady of Regeneration."

The Veteran stared.

"Any other requests?" The Veteran asked.

"Straight to business? Must we?" Sangraal asked, taking a step forward. Her tone was faux-innocent, the fiery red glare on her unfinished face threatening to send a tremble of terror through the Veteran's body.

Copper scents wafted up her nose at the Demon's approach. Blood from the visible innards.

"I ain't worth getting to know."

"How did you come to be injured?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Wouldn't get an answer, would I?"

"So true," Sangraal huffed. The Farmer was skittish. Sangraal could not blame her.

"Why live so primitively?"

"Why live complicated?"

The Farmer was evasive. Sangraal hadn't even learned her name. But she sensed pain, deep and lasting. And fear. Extreme fear. That ironically made her harder to read.

"Okay, Simple. You want to keep your secrets. But we should at least not be so hostile. After all, we'll both get what we want faster by cooperating."

"What am I cooperating for?" The Veteran asked.

Sangraal paused. Evasive yet interrogative. Never gave away vital intel yet was quick to probe for any weaknesses in her guests ability to keep her mouth shut.

Unfortunately, the Farmer had the advantage. And Sangraal would not be able to conceal it forever.

"Very well, you win," the unfinished Demon said, stepping closer. The Veteran stepped back, freezing in disgust as Sangraal leaned forward and whispered.

"I need your womb to make something."

Thinking only of the lives of her men, who needed her now more than ever, the Veteran only said, "How long until you are ready?"

Sangraal's eyebrow raised. "You're not even curious what I need the womb for?"

"How. Long?" The ex-soldier's eyes were steely, her jaw clenched tight as the words came out tersely. Not impolite, not in a snarl...but tersely.

"A month at most. I have to focus the energies in this place properly-"

"As long as you are out of my house at the end of it, your preperations matter little."

Sangraal sighed, perturbed. She would have been less disturbed had the Farmer recoiled in disgust.

"It wouldn't be painful, if that's what you are afraid of."

"This ritual of yours isn't getting done any faster talking to me."

"It's a baby."

"Did I ask?" The Veteran said dryly, revolted by the way she could see the exposed heart starting to beat slightly faster through Sangraal's incomplete chest. The membranes on some of her internal organs still had gaps in their coverage. The Liver, if it had any function in the Demon at all, was still misshapen slightly. The fat layers wriggled and shifted on the skeleton underneath and against sinew, placing in the correct areas. The whole thing was utterly nauseating.

"So you don't care at all about the fact I want you to be a surrogate mother?"

"All I care about is you getting it over with."

Sangraal stepped forward. The Veteran stepped backward, all the way to the front door.

"You're afraid of me?"

"Yes."

"I'd rather you not be. I've no desire to take your life. Or your soul."

"Just my womb."

Sangraal smiled. "A girl's gotta start somewhere."

The Veteran tasted bile and vomit rising up rapidly, but displayed no reaction to the smile. She held the red stare of the Demon.

"If you say so."

"We should not be enemies, Simple. Think of us as business partners on an exciting venture."

"You treat me civil, I'll treat you the same," The Veteran said, deciding to get away from the revolting creature. "Republic just declared a travel lockdown looking for you. Nobody gets on or off the Planet. Hills probably crawling with military by this point. They're ordering people to stay indoors."

"All that just to catch little old me? I'm flattered," the incomplete Demon said, giving a throaty chuckle. The Veteran forced vomit back down her throat as she saw the lungs contract rapidly to give her chuckle the air it needed.

"Whatever. I'm going to do dishes."

"Ummm...about my clothing situation..." the Demon added in a tone the Veteran found hideously playful.

"I have a spare set of clothes. You're not getting them until you've finished...sewing up."

The Veteran began to pump water into the metal sink she had shaped by hand. She applied dish soap to plain white ceramic plates still dirty from a meal of flying squirrels.

"You built this house yourself?" Sangraal asked.

"Yes," she answered, calmly setting a clean plate to the side of a wooden counter. She could hear the slick, wet thuds of Sangraal's heart against the muscle and organs, and avoided looking lest she be nauseated.

"Strange," Sangraal noted, her gaze analytical.

"What's strange?" Another washed and completed dish.

"I've been in Farmer's homes before. There are usually knick-knacks. Trinkets."

"Never was the type to start a collection."

"Oh, you should try it, its fun," the naked, incomplete Demon replied in a gossipy tone. "You look like a stamp collector-type."

The Veteran said nothing, merely giving a shrug.

"I used to collect coins. Kept it up for a good few thousand years. Built up quite the collection...and then a rival blew it all up to spite me," Sangraal added, leaning against the counter. "Decided not to waste time on the hobby when it was under constant threat."

"Sounds like it was your little sliver of normal," the Veteran observed, detached.

"Normal's overrated, Dear."

"Okay."

The Veteran began drying the dishes.

The slick wet thud heartbeat made the Veteran's stomach wrench.

"I have to say, you are taking all this a lot better than I thought you would."

The Veteran shrugged, drying a plate. She could hear the exposed heart clearly in the naked silence between them. Strong. Steady. Loud. Sickening.

"How long till you're sewn up?" she asked, drying a cup, eyes down at the floor, neither smiling nor frowning.

"An hour, at most."

"What else do you need for the ritual you have to conduct?"

Sangraal sighed. No small talk it seemed.

"More internal organs, human, this time, taken fresh."

The Veteran looked up, a gormless expression on her face as she dried another cup.

"Ha! Made you look! Actually, I wouldn't need to resort to human organs unless I wanted to affect the ecology, which is admittedly quite beautiful around here. But I will need human blood mixed with ink," Sangraal clarified with a devilish grin, muscle tissue starting to obscure sight of the heart as it slowly grew.

"Got a transfusion kit somewhere. You'll get your blood."

"Sorry, doesn't work that way. I mix your blood into the ink I need when you are already the focus? Lets just say you'll...screw it, you'd implode," Sangraal explained. "It has to be fresh."

"We get it cleanly. No deaths," The Veteran asserted quietly, focusing on the silverware now as she worked a spoon over with a rag.

"I didn't come here to murder innocent people in the quaint countryside, Simple," Sangraal replied, slightly irritable as the tissue over her incomplete face knitted together.

"Never said you did."

"You think I'm one of those heartless butchers Exar was in charge of, don't you?"

"You were a bloody, demonic skeleton when we met."

"Well I'm not now. At worst, I look like I skidded across the ground in a vehicular accident," Sangraal whined in an almost childlike manner.

"No arguments there," the Veteran responded quietly, drying the last cup, forcing herself to stare at the creature in front of her. "How fresh? The blood, I mean."

"It can't be older than an hour from the body."

"I'll go find someone when its dark. Bring him back here, drain the blood, and deposit him back where I found him."

"Damn, woman. Do I have to tip for delivery?" Sangraal joked morbidly.

The Veteran did not smile.

"I'll get you your clothes in a few minutes," the Veteran said.

Sangraal let out a huff. "Leave them down in the basement," she said, the cartilage on her nose nearly finished as she walked out of the sparse, small kitchen, heading down into the panic shelter.

As soon as she was out of sight, the Veteran grabbed a spray bottle of soap and sprayed the part of the counter Sangraal had leaned against. She began scrubbing it furiously with a sponge.

"Sure hope this stuff can clean _infernal_ off hard surfaces," she muttered under her breath as she scrubbed.

***

The Veteran had found an old white knee length dress she had never worn, along with a pair of white sandals and some underwear, and had been heading downstairs to hand all of this to the Demon. There were no spare bras, and the Veteran would be damned before getting The Damned all over them.

There was a knock on the door.

The Veteran quietly and quickly went back upstairs and put the clothes back in her closet. She also swapped out her bloody clothes from this morning, putting on a loose fitting gray t-shirt and a gray pair of trousers with red flip flops and headed down stairs after she threw the bloodied clothes into a sealed duffle bag in her closet before heading downstairs.

Flicking some strands of brown hair from the side of her face covered by synthskin and opened the door.

Four men, dressed in black BDU'S covered by black plastoid plates on the chest, shins, and forearms, with an ammunition belt on the waist. Shotguns with drum clips and silencers were slung over their backs. Three of them, their faces covered by Balaclavas and enhanced vision visors. They flanked the leader, who was unmasked. None of them wore rank insignia or service patches.

The leader, the unmasked one, was wearing a yellow Beret with a red trim on the sides. He was a foot taller than her, and broader in the shoulders. The buzzcut his beret partially hid suggested marine, but the beret suggested Republic Special Ranger Service. His jaw was wide, square, and strong, His forehead was large and flat and his cheeks were sharply defined and wide on the face. The Eyes were brown.

His canned smile and pre-rendered Officer's charm went active as if a switch had been thrown.

"Good Afternoon, ma'am," he said, warm, and friendly. The Veteran only stared. "Captain Arkimedes Adonas at your service. May I come in?"

The Veteran stood aside, bade them forward silently.

"Thank you so much, ma'am. I must say, it is an honor to meet someone with your distinguished record," Captain Adonas spoke formally, his voice giving away a certain country side Corellian Drawl. The Veteran guessed northern islands, situated in the lakes close to the mountains. It's tone gentle and built for putting civilians at ease. He and the others entered, making no sound from their footfalls. Shadowsilk, she guessed.

"Is there something I can help you with, Captain?"

"Ma'am, it is my sad and unfortunate duty to inform you that a squad of men must be stationed on the road outside your home as a military checkpoint. Now, we have been made aware of your medical record and will be establishing all of our electronic equipment a quarter kilometer away from your property. Is that acceptable to you? I'm willing to make it half a kilometer."

"Half would be nice," the Veteran replied, polite but to the point. Her voice slightly hoarse.

"Half it is," Captain Adonas replied respectfully. "Now, we are aware that civilians still need to travel so we will be establishing a curfew eight hours afternoon, these maps I am handing you," the Captain added, handing her a series of papers, "Are a list of approved travel routes, the areas in red are off limit search areas where we believe an extremely dangerous criminal may be hiding. He's a Chiss, you'll see a picture of him in the papers you've been given. Now, we believe he caused some kind of disturbance not too far from your property. Do you recall seeing anything odd?"

"Dead asleep, unfortunately."

"I see. That is unfortunate. Well, I won't take up any more of your time, and again, I apologize for any inconvenience," Captain Adonas finished, and with a slight gesture of the head the others followed him out. The Veteran closed the door after a few seconds and then headed up the stairs a few seconds later, retrieving the clothes she had selected for the Demon from her closet. She headed back down, through open the rug disguising the panic shelter entrance. After collecting herself for a moment, she headed down into the shelter.

It was clean. There was no sign of the deer. That scared the Veteran more than if there had gore everywhere. The Demon leaned against the farthest wall from her in complete shadow. Its red eyes glowed in the dark.

"Spare clothes," the Veteran muttered quietly, trying not to shudder at the red eyes.

"White? Ma'am, may I remind you _I am a Demon?_ " Sangraal asked, amusement in her tone.

"I have some black sweatpants."

"I was _joking_."

"Okay."

Some unseen force lifted the clothes from her hands and drifted into the darkness.

"So...soldier, huh? Heard the conversation."

"Respectfully, that's personal," The Veteran answered, fist clenching at the sounds of blasterfire and screams of the doomed. She hid it, as she always did. The Demon was not fooled. She knew it instinctively.

"Oh, c'mon, I'm curious now."

"I have to go check the grapes out back. They're almost ready for pressing," the Veteran spoke, quickly changing the subject. She began to head up the ladder.

"That man spoke to you with reverence. Respect. What did you do to earn such respect?"

"Same way a good many soldiers have...being in the wrong place, at the wrong time."

"You become more interesting with each passing moment, Simple," Sangraal replied coyly. "What's this about a medical condition?"

"It's. Personal." The words were terse, but did not creep into a tone that could be considered hostile.

"Fair enough. But how are you going to get the blood without that checkpoint outside noticing?"

The Veteran wordlessly approached the part of the panic shelter that had the spare matress on the floor. Her spine tightened as she went only a few meters past the area where she knew Sangraal was in the darkness, the red glowing eyes fixed on the soldier as she lit a candle, held it over the bed, then pressed a small indentation in a brick above on the wall to her left.

There was a click, than a hiss, as the bed lifted up on one side, the purely hydraulic mechanism lifting the hidden trap door the bed hid. She could barely make it out in the darkness, not wanting to light a candle and risk seeing whatever state the Demon was in.

"It leads out into the fields beyond for about a click. I'll go out through here, come back through here. You'll get your blood."

"Hidden escape tunnel? _Sexy_. I take it I'm not the only one in this room with enemies," the Demon observed with a dark chuckle.

The Veteran rose, shutting the tunnel door. The bed clicked in place.

"They'll be stationing regular army grunts at the checkpoints but the ones near the deep fields and woodlands are throughly black ops. Likely pulled from marine or ranger service. They'll be combing the hills for where they think you are," the Veteran explained, heading back to the ladder, eager to get away from the red eyes.

"Hey, there's no bra," the Demon complained.

"You're not wearing my bras," the Veteran said tersely, heading up the ladder.

"Infernal beings need support too!" The Demon called back irritably as the Veteran went up the ladder and shut the entrance.


	3. The Motive

The Veteran plucked the grapes from the vines in her back yard. Each went into a large bucket next to her, five in total.

Slowly but gradually, in the hot sun, each bucket filled with fat red grapes as the Veteran plucked away at the rows of supported vines on posts. Sweat ran down the Veteran's brow, and her back ached she worked her organic hand raw, hefting all five of the heavy buckets one by one, carrying them over to her home made wine pressing shelter, a self-built shed with a recessed large, double layered metal pit with a screen fitted over its second layer's inner surface in the bottom. She dumped the grapes into the pit, and then went over to a pulley crank, lowering a heavy metal drill from above over the pit. There were latches on the sides that fixed to the drum screen the grapes had been dumped in.

She fixed the latches to the second layer and then went back to the crane, hefting both the drill and the secondary drum containing the grapes upward. The secondary drum stayed within the bounds of the pit due to a track built on four sides of the drum. Its bottom was close to the point where the lip of the primary drum met the floor. The Veteran went to a secondary hand crank built into the floor that controlled the drill.

The drill sank into the grapes, the juice flowing from the perforated bottom of the secondary drum and dark red juice spilled into the pit in the floor. After adding the sugar, wine yeast, and covering the drum, The Veteran had left the shed and went to the primitive cone shaped three story stone structure that served as her icebox at the farthest end of the backyard and went to get some meat ready for lunch. She had retrieved a sack of frozen deer meat and was about to head back inside when she noticed the Marshall she had met earlier, Bonny Vor, waiting just outside her property, on the other side of a chest high metal chainlink fence she had installed around the back.

"How's it going!" He called out, waving.

The Veteran approached the fence, hiding how she was clenching her teeth.

"Marshal," she said evenly.

"Wow, you sure got yourself a hell of a farm here!" Bonny spoke, amazed. "Must get lonely, all this wilderness and wheat around you."

"It cleanses the spirit, and pleases the Gods when its put to labor."

"No doubt," Bonny replied, whistling. There was the sound, at last, of birds tweeting in the distance, to break the sheer silence of the empty land.

"Helping the military conduct their search?" she asked.

"Oh, heavens no. Thats completely hands off. I'm just tasked with enforcing the curfew in these parts, warning civvies to stay off the roads unless necessary. I'm a lot friendlier than these military types, so they keep me around."

"Well, I hope you don't encounter too much trouble. I should be going inside, I need to fix lunch."

Bonny smiled cheerfully. "By all means, don't let me keep you."

The Veteran nodded to him and began to make her way to the back porch.

"Although..."

The ex-soldier stopped in her tracks.

Bonny scratched his head thoughtfully. "Bear with me, its probably nothing, maybe I'm overthinkin' it..."

"What, exactly?" she wondered, voice going hoarse slightly.

"Well, it's just...its the craziest thing, its been bothering me all morning...you fired three shots."

Stillness settled over her body.

"What's odd about that?"

"Well, you have a double barreled rifle. That's good for two shots. You wanna know what drew me to the area I found you in? That first gunshot. But there was a pause. And then, half hour later, two successive shots."

"I missed the deer the first time."

"Yeah, I know, but you put two in it second time around, and I got the craziest idea..."

"Of?"

"That your gun had already been fired. And that's the thing I couldn't figure. That gun of yours is pretty short range. Them Corellian deer, they're fast on the distance, but they take a while to build speed. Why didn't you try a follow up shot?"

"Bad angle, plus, I...was distracted."

"You, uh, load another round into your gun?"

"Yeah, while I resumed chasing it."

Bonny blinked for a moment then laughed.

"Eh, I suppose its nothing. Well, I won't take any more of your time. You take care now!"

"Likewise," the Veteran replied in an even manner, heading back inside. She immediately headed to the kitchen and unwrapped the meat, setting it inside a large blue pot on the wood fired stove, which she made active by lighting the small amount of wood inside with a match.

She added thyme and sage to the meat, along with crumbling sea salt from her spice cabinet. She'd let the meat cook in its own juices.

She heard the step of a sandal onto hard wood. She turned around.

The Demon was finished, a curvy, smooth figure tastefully concealed by a white dress. Even the Veteran could not ignore the beauty now, which was considerable, and breathtaking. She was holding a bottle of red wine, the bottle, like everything else, crafted by the Veteran. A glass was in her other hand.

"I found your answer to cooking sherry. I have to say, it's got a hell of a bite. Heh. Get it? _Hell_?"

The Veteran stared before fixing her attention on the cabinets for a plate.

"Do you eat, Demon?" She asked stoically, trying to focus on cooking and not the terror of being alone with this creature.

"Only when the mood suits me. I'm sustained by...other means."

The Veteran set out a plate for herself. She got out a glass and poured herself a small glass of water from the sink.

"You're a deeply unhappy woman, aren't you?"

A fork was set next to the plate, which the Veteran carried over to the round wooden table set to the sparse kitchen.

Sangraal glanced at the label.

"Flaming Sword Merlot," she said out loud, eyebrow raising at the name. "Why that name?"

"It was a good name."

Sangraal pulled out a chair, nestled into it.

"What did you do in the military?"

"Kill or help kill."

"Not what I meant."

"I led people to their deaths."

"So, leadership position?"

"Not that I was good at it."

"You were good enough that captain was honored to meet you."

"That 'Captain' was a gorram spook."

"Oh?"

"My gut says he saw action in the Hosnian System. Possibly Ossus, but his age is right for when the Krath invaded."

"How much of a problem do you think he'll be?"

"He's a spook. Always trouble," the Veteran responded quietly, sipping on her water.

"How do you know he's a spook?" Sangraal asked.

"Because he has the look of a man who shoots you twice from behind," the Veteran answered cynically.

"Ever done that yourself?" Sangraal asked with an intrigued grin, leaning forward.

"When I want to screw you, I do it to your face."

Sangraal's grin grew wider still, the beauty of the perfect grin somehow repulsive and unsettling in its perfection.

"Really... _do go on_..." she trailed, her voice going silken.

The Veteran took only another sip of water and stared, her gaze one of stone.

Sangraal pouted. "My word, dear, you ARE a tough nut to crack."

"Never was good at conversation."

"You don't trust me."

"Would you? In my place?"

Sangraal pulled back.

"No. But think about it. I have nothing to gain by harming you. Why should my surrogate hate and fear me? I am not unsympathetic to the burden I ask you to undertake. I am not unsympathetic to the risk you are taking in concealing me. Is it so wrong to wish to know you better in the process?"

"I know what a Sith is. I know how your kind thinks."

The Demon angrily slammed both fists on the table and the fists scorched the table underneath black.

"I am _nothing_ like those madmen Exar led," Sangraal hissed passionately. "I do not thoughtlessly destroy suns and slaughter civilians."

The Veteran stared at the scorch mark, then at her. Her expression was deadpan. Pyrokinetic. Not surprising for a Demon. And she had gotten insight as to what would set her off.

Sangraal took a deep breath and withdrew her fists.

"My outburst was...unfortunate..." Sangraal said, placing her hands slowly on the table. "I apologize."

The Veteran raised an eyebrow, then rose up, checking the deer meat in her pot. She grabbed a large wooden spoon in a rack nearby and stirred the chunks in the pot.

"Did you believe?" Sangraal asked.

"Hmmm..." the Veteran muttered absently, adding more spice to the pot.

"Your war. Did you believe in your cause?"

"Yes," the Veteran replied, smelling the broth.

"So did I, Simple."

"It ain't me you gotta explain it to."

"I know. I just don't like assumptions being made of me. But I'd rather be nice to the woman birthing my child than not."

"This child. Will it be a Demon, like you?"

"No. Its strength in the Force will be great however. I'll oversee things once it is born, you need not further be involved once you have done your part."

The Veteran shrugged at this. "Okay."

"Is it just because I'm a Sith you don't like me?"

"I don't like anybody, Demon. Don't take it personally."

"I don't believe that."

"Why?"

Sangraal leaned forward again, and the Veteran studied the soft, voluptuous face, the body that scratched the brains of even the most stoic with lust. The Demon had crafted its visage well, the ex-soldier admitted to herself.

"Because," the Demon cooed. "Your face is too full of hurt for you to not be capable of liking anybody. It's a face that knew happiness, once. That's why there are no trinkets here. Because you cannot bear it. The memory of when you were happy."

There was a silence quieter than the wilderness outside.

The Veteran sat there, stone faced.

The response that came out of her was a strained whisper.

"We're done here."

The Demon rose, taking her wine with her. "Enjoy your meal."

It was night time. The Veteran peaked out and saw a small team of soldiers in white plastoid armor standing out side on the road, on a quickly set up security booth with what looked like a small barracks behind it. The soldiers looked tired, but alert. They had spent most of the day setting up the pre-fab walls and floor and roof. The Veteran knew this would probably be the best time to get by them. They were tired, and new to this security detail. She had to go now, if she was to take advantage.

She headed upstairs, retrieving from her closet a sand colored BDU, the same color as that of the wheat fields around the house, mixed with some grays and dark greens for the local plants. She took out some green and gray face paint from a small set of cannisters on a nearby shelf in the closet. She took out a blowdart pipe, handbuilt by her as well. Hopefully she wouldn't need it.

She applied the face paint to break up the shape and outlines of her visage and took a few tranq-darts in a pouch with her uniform.

"Hot date?" Sangraal called out, leaning against the bedroom door with a look of concerned, faux-scepticism. "It could use a dash of peach to the face, if you don't mind my saying. And no offense, but you are a fashion _nightmare._ "

"Don't light any candles or make any noise. As far as anyone knows, I'm in bed," the Veteran told her, putting her boots on.

"When I've got all this entertainment to look forward to? I wouldn't _dream_ of it," Sangraal replied, her near constant good humor more unsettling to the Veteran than just that of a typical wrath filled Sith. It made her even more wary of her.

The Veteran said nothing at this, pulling out a glowstick, snapping it, and heading downstairs. She went into the panic shelter's entrance.

"If anyone knocks, don't answer," the Veteran told the white-clad Demon. Her voluptuous caramel skinned face smiled and nodded, one of the red eyes hidden by a tuft of jet black hair that never seemed to reflect any light.

"How are you going to get whoever you are taking back here?" The Demon asked with an intrigued smile, clearly enjoying scheming for its own sake as the Veteran hit the hidden switch by the wall, opening the tunnel entrance.

"This tunnel was made large. I won't have an trouble," the Veteran answered as she went inside. "Have your ink ready. Wait...what ARE you using for ink?"

"Those old bottles of iron gall I found in your downstairs closet while you were outside picking grapes."

"Oh, those. Forgot about those."

"May the Force serve you...that's how we Sith wish someone good luck," the Demon added. "Also, I don't suppose its too late for a late night run to the convenience store? Ice cold chocolate milk is something I have been _craving_."

The Veteran stared up at her. The Demon sighed in annoyance.

"Can't you smile? One time?" Sangraal asked pleadingly, drawing a smile in the air over the Veteran's face with her finger.

"No," the Veteran answered bluntly, shutting the entrance above her.

She proceeded through the dark, fully supported tunnel, the stone supports holding beautifully. No chance of it collapsing.

The Veteran proceeded through the tunnel, the light of her glowstick warding off the shadows of a barren stone intestine built under the earth.

She breathed hard. It was cold down here yet she sweated from nerves. Finally, after a while of walking, she found the tunnel opening on the other end, a stone door with a twist lever on a pedestal set to the side. She turned the lever, hearing clicks of a mechanism as the lever turned. With all the effort she had put into making it, it had BETTER work.

The stone door clicked open and the Veteran stepped forward, tossing her glowstick behind her. It opened into a small chamber, with a ladder on one wall. She had worked her way all the way to the house from this point. It had taken her a year to construct it in secret.

She climbed the ladder, which led her to a small, bare stone room with another twist lever, a stone door ahead of it. She twisted the lever until she heard a click in the mechanism. The door slid open.

Her tunnel led out of a humanoid statue wearing the helmet of the senate commandos. It stood atop a great brick rest where the tunnel entrance was built into. It was close to the woodland, vines overgrown on it. The moonlight was out, shining pale light overhead.

She crouched low into the wheat, surveying the area. She saw lights from a house in the fields beyond. A small hut, with what looked like a fire going gently inside. She saw lights moving in the hills.

She crawled in the wheat. Whoever was in the house would be an easier target than whoever was in the hills at this time of night. Last thing she needed was to get spotted. The house wasn't too far. She could make it.

She crawled through the wheat for fifteen minutes, careful as possible to reduce noise she made. She almost didn't hear the footsteps until she was right on them. She went still, letting the wheat cover her.

Her body seized when she heard the click and chirps of comlinks. She froze, the panic attack coming, but not daring to whimper as the smell of ozone filled her. The left side of her face was flat against the dirt.

"Command, this is Omega-5. Sweep complete in east section. Beginning evaluation of tree line."

"Roger. Report when complete," a man's voice on the other end replied.

"Roger. Making my way to forest monument..."

Her blood went to ice. She had been sloppy, forgotten that she couldn't close it from the outside.

And that bastard had electronics on him...

She heard the footsteps creep by her, her dread of the electronics freezing every muscle as the soldier walked by. Then she heard barking. Kath hounds.

She had to get out of here. The area was too hot. She had hoped to grab a stray, but the dogs would smell the panic sweat from being attacked.

She heard the footsteps move further away, heard the barking come closer. She forced herself to move stiffly through the panic, preparing her blowdarts. She quietly rose, forcing herself to focus through the utter panic she was experiencing. She spotted the soldier in black moving towards the tree line. The barking dogs were closer. She could see a four man team judging from their silhouettes in the moonlight from far away. They were covering the roads leading to the rivers a few kilometers out.

Icy terror gripped her as she spotted the comlink, spotted the night vision goggles and fired a dart at the back of the neck.

The dart hit the back of a cloth balaclava, the soldier swooned, pulling the dart out and had about three seconds for it to register before he keeled over.

The Veteran had a decision to make. She hadn't intended to take a soldier, just escape, but she had him.

She weighed her odds carefully. She had five seconds.

Forcing terror frozen muscles to move, she fought back thinking about the ozone smell as she scooped the unconscious man up with her natural arm and was running with the soldier in a fireman's carry. She could make out the statue in the distance, some fifty meters beyond. The sound of barking dogs from behind grew closer.

The comlink blared with a static crackle and the Veteran's muscles locked. She collapsed, the man tumbling from her shoulder.

"Omega-5, please respond, over."

The comlink. She took deep, hyperventilating breaths, unable to fully control herself as she managed to rip the radio away with all her might with her cybernetic arm from the man's shoulder harness, tossing it far away. She struggled up, felt like she had been running for hours and scooped him up again, shuddering badly as she heard the voice over the comlink in the distance. She reached the statue, practically hurling herself through the door and shutting it behind her.

She dumped the man on the ground, climbed back down to the tunnel below, and ran, sprinting all the way back to the other entrance, picking up her glowstick on the way.

She climbed back through the entrance to her panic shelter and found Sangraal staring at the entrance from a corner, leaning against the wall.

"That was quick. When you guys say thirty minutes or fewer you aren't kidding. So, what's the tip?" The Demon asked. " _Tell me_ you remembered the shrimp fried rice."

The Veteran was rushing up the ladder to the living room. She ignored the joke. Of all the Demonic Sith she could have gotten, why did she have to get the one that was a _troll_?

"There's a man at the other end of that tunnel at the top of the ladder. Make sure he stays unconscious," the Veteran ordered her as she headed up.

Sangraal sighed, and hopped down into the tunnel.

The Veteran wasn't long in retrieving a small, primitive transfusion kit from under her bed and quietly headed back down the stairs, into the panic shelter through the utter darkness of the house. Not wanting to leave that soldier alone with the Demon more than she dared, she did not pause to catch her breath as she hopped back into the tunnel and ran all the way back to the other end.

The Demon stood over the unconscious soldier, smiled as the Veteran climbed the ladder and immediately began rolling his sleeve up, pulling out a cannister from the kit to contain the blood. She looked at the soldier and back to the Demon. Why did it always smile? Did it actually believe it was easing her worries? Or was it the smile of of a shark?

"This reminds me of sticking a straw in a coconut for some reason..." Sangraal mused.

"He hasn't moved?" the Veteran asked as she fixed a hypodermic needle to the arm, which fed into a plastic tube that connected to the container.

"Not with little old me watching him," the Demon assured.

"How much you need?"

"Fill her up, I got a long trip ahead and the tank was nearly empty."

The Veteran stared...and raised an eyebrow.

Sangraal clasped both her hands to her face and her mouth dropped open in mock astonishment. "How _scandalous_! Dare I see it?! A reaction from you that isn't cold dismissal but just bordering on mild bemusement! What will the neighbors think?!"

"Do you want this blood or _not_?" the Veteran inquired in terse fashion.

Sangraal sighed and gestured to get on with it.

The extraction took a few minutes, but she had a full pint when she was done.

She handed the pint to Sangraal.

"Aww, for me?" the Demon asked. "I'm more of a candy person, but thanks!"

"I gotta get rid of this guy. Get the blood back to the house," The Veteran snapped, refusing to play into her response.

She went silent as she heard the sounds of dogs barking directly on the other end of the stone door.

Sangraal, still grasping the container of blood, leaned against the door, staring at the Veteran, smiling as the dogs barked on the other side and they both heard soldiers.

"Omega-5 is MIA. No signs beyond a comlink. Think the target neutralized asset?"

"High possibility. What's this statue doing out here?"

"That's not important," Sangraal whispered, closing her eyes, left hand running her palm against the stone door.

"That's not important," the soldier repeated on the other side.

"Probably not even worth mentioning in the report," the Demon whispered.

Another soldier on the other side repeated her words.

"We should go now, continue the search elsewhere," she said under her breath. The Veteran took a step back because the Demon was simply staring at her, grinning at her brainwashing.

"We should go now, continue the search elsewhere," the first soldier said.

Both the Veteran and the Demon waited until the sounds on the other side faded. The Veteran said nothing.

The Demon knealt down next to the soldier and whispered.

"In ten minutes you are going to wake up, and you're going to walk out of this chamber. You're going to wander and forget where you were the past five hours. Don't make contact with your men until dawn."

Sangraal then rose up, patted the Veteran on the shoulder which made the ex-soldier flinch.

"You're welcome," Sangraal sarcastically muttered, climbing down the ladder.

The Veteran did not sleep well that night, so unsettled by the Demon's ability to enter minds without even having to look at them like a normal Sith that her last thoughts before sheer exhaustion overtook her was little more than jumbled paranoia three hours before dawn. She woke up to the Demon standing over her, seemingly observing the sleeping woman.

"Good morning," said the Demon in a perky manner.

"Why are you standing over me?" The Veteran asked, almost frozen in her bed from fear.

"I merely came into the room to check on you. You were unsettled last night for some reason. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to make your day easier."

"How did you get in my room? I dead bolted it."

Sangraal turned her head to the wooden door, chuckled at the five different bolts on the door.

"Oh, those! Yeah, those don't stop me. Is that why you poured salt on the floor around your bed?"

The Veteran glowered at the Demon.

"I know, its a common misconception. Salt works, but the person pouring it also has to be spiritually pure. And you, my friend, are...not."

"Guess I'm out one can of iodized."

Sangraal snorted back some laughter.

"You were using _table salt_?" the Demon guffawed.

"What kind of salt should I be using?"

The Demon leaned closer, right hand clasping a bedsheet.

"Tell me, Simple. Why did you agree so quickly to aid me? When we first met? You clearly hate the Sith, you can barely stand me. So why? Why give me the time of day?"

"What need has a Demonic Sith for a baby?"

Sangraal pulled back. "I doubt you would understand," she replied haughtily, but the soldier spotted a nervous edge to the response. She decided to press the matter.

"You come into my house. You crack wise at every opportunity. You pry, for no discernable reason I can tell beyond your own curiosity," the Veteran snapped, face twisting with anger for the first time. She rose off the bed and the Demon stepped back as she was cornered.

"Why do you need a baby, Demon? You could find any one of a thousand successors out there stupid enough to believe whatever you want. Besides, its not like you can truly risk creating a threat to yourself. So why? Why come and get summoned to the ass end of nowhere and hide with a lowly farmer?"

"Because I'm _alone_!" the Demon snapped back bitterly, face contorting in a hurt the Veteran knew wasn't faked.

The next thirty seconds were silent between them. The Veteran had never expected that kind of an answer from _any_ Sith, let alone a Sith _Demon._

"You want the truth?" Sangraal asked, still angry after the silence. "I'm on the losing end of a private war with the Jedi Order. In spite of all my power, I failed. Most of my allies are dead. My faction, the Sith Philosophers, is crushed. My summoning was botched after my previous defeat. And I have been coming back for the last few thousand years with the same mission...to merge the Jedi and the Sith back into one entity, so we can be brothers and sisters as we were in the beginning. And I keep failing. Keep dying and getting sent back to hell just as I'm on the cusp of success," the Demon snarled, stepping to the side of the Veteran.

"All that effort," Sangraal continued, looking exhausted for the first time. "All that sacrifice, and I am no closer to success than I was when I started. And the thought of spending eternity trying and failing without any reason to make it worth it...without anyone to at least...at least listen...could you bear the idea of all your effort being for nothing AND ending up alone?"

The Veteran did not answer, hiding her devastation and SEVERE discomfort at how much the Demon's question resonated.

To her own distress, when she again looked at the Demon, she saw it, having been too distracted by the Demon's beauty to notice it the first time.

It was the weariness, the stiff shoulders, the gaze that seemed too distant, the way Sangraal's stress piled on her face, despite it being as gorgeous as ever.

The Demon was a _burnt out vet._

The realization made the Veteran turn slowly around, looking at the Demon with a new perspective that was both unsettling and too familiar.

Wishing to forget for a moment that they had something in common, the Veteran decided to switch back to more important points.

"This summoning of yours...how was it botched?"

"Not so fast," Sangraal countered, taking a step forward, making the Veteran step back.

"I want to know why you accepted my deal."

"I had a debt to pay. From the war."

"What sort of debt?"

"The kind that made me take you up on your offer," the soldier answered. "Let me put it to you another way...you end up in hell after all this, don't be surprised if you see me burning next to you sometime."

Sangraal gave a half grin. "Next to me? There's no one else in hell you'd rather burn next to?"

"You are the only one I know from Hell. Might as well."

"See? Honesty. Was that so hard?" the Demon asked, perking up somehow despite her prior outburst.

"That's why you took all this risk? Just to not be alone?"

The Demon stared at the plain mirror in the wall next to her bed. The Veteran didn't see any reflection from the Demon.

"Didn't you? Once?" Sangraal asked in reply.

"Once."

"Was it worth it?"

"No."

The Demon stiffened. "I suppose I will have to be more optimistic about the perceived benefits behind my efforts."

"I suppose," the Veteran responded neutrally.

"Why don't you believe it was worth it? Reaching out?" Sangraal asked.

"You see me with anyone?" the Veteran asked wryly as she walked past her for the door. "What else we need for the ritual?"

"Burl wood."

"Shouldn't be too hard to get."

"Also, I'll need a human skeleton."

"That will be harder."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"No."

"The skeleton doesn't have to be fresh."

"There's a comfort."

Sangraal snorted as a chuckle escaped her.

"So you do have a sense of humor," the Demon snorted.

"No," the Veteran said, going down the steps. "I don't."

A half hour after a breakfast with eggs and wine grapes, the Veteran was putting on an ankle length brown dress and brown boots. The burl wouldn't be hard to get. Plenty of trees had it around these parts. She would save the skeleton for tomorrow. She would take care of it now, get as much time away from the Demon as possible. She didn't like having anything in common with it. It was four hours after dawn. The sun was starting to get high into the sky. The soldiers at the checkpoint saluted her as she walked out of her house, a wood axe in a sheath on her back. Sangraal told her they only needed two pounds worth. She winced, angered by them being just outside her house. She'd gone to the country to flee this.

All she could think about was blaster-bolts when she saw the uniform. Blaster-bolts and lightning.

She was walking the opposite direction before she realized it. She exhaled, heading down the dirt trail, planning on diverting close to the woodland or perhaps one of the cypress trees growing here, getting the burl that way.

As she walked, she caught sight of a man in the distance, stiffened as she recognized the profile of the full body armor. It was Mandalorian. His armor plates, even his flight suit underneath those plates, were bright orange in color, His helmet was orange, and the T-shaped visor was a milky white color. He was carrying what looked like a golden, pump action scattergun, slung over his back. He looked as tall as she was.

She knew Mandalorians well, having studied them both in the field and captivity. She felt no empathy for them. Putting necks to the sword had been easy where they were concerned. She was bothered more by the Krath she'd slain. She still felt no empathy for them. They had gotten what they deserved, siding with Exar Kun.

But what was one doing here? No way the military didn't know he was on Castell.

She figured just to pass by him as he got closer. Not like they needed to interact. Besides, her sword had tasted too much of their blood for her to be intimidated by their mystique. Her hands had crushed or even bashed in their necks.

She wasn't expecting him to slow down slightly, then address her, wheatfields and Cypress trees whistling with wind in the distance.

"Fine morning you're having on Castell," the Mandalorian said, his voice a hard, rumbling timbre with a Concord Dawn accent.

"It is. Nice gun," the Veteran complimented.

"Thanks. My brother actually does some good work when I can get him off his lazy ass."

"Hunting?"

"Of a sort. I'm an independent contractor the Military hired. Got a criminal in these rural lands. Not surprised the perp ran to the country side."

"Why not?"

"Monsters have a disturbing affinity for the quiet of such places. Its where their sins can scream the loudest. Yet no one hears. The Gods would burn the wheatfields for the wickedness they hide were it not for the fact such places please them as well," the Mandalorian asserted.

"Monsters?" The wind blew gently through the Veteran's hair.

"Right. Monsters."

"Any idea where the monster could be?"

"Not in the deepwoods. Too obvious. Perp's too crafty. But they're paying me by the hour to search there, so I search there. Perp's probably hiding in some basement or something," the Mandalorian muttered off handedly.

The man reached into his pouch, pulling out a piece of flat, hard tack.

"Bread?" He asked, holding it out.

The Veteran took it. "Thanks."

"No problem," the Mandalorian replied casually, voice low, even with the helmet blaring it.

"Seen anything strange?" He asked.

"The Military Checkpoint outside my house."

"Huh," the Mandalorian grunted passively. "Tough break."

"Yeah."

"So," he asked, "What you off to do?"

"Getting burl wood."

"You like wood carving?"

"Yeah."

The Mandalorian reached into a pocket on his chest, pulling out a knife. It was small, pocket size, built for whittling. It was single edged, with a red handle, the blade about two to three inches in length.

"I got a ton of knives. I won't miss this one," the Mandalorian claimed. "Enjoy."

The Veteran stared directly into the visor. "Much obliged."

The Mandalorian tipped his helmet to her before preceeding on his way. "Catch ya' later."

The sherbet-colored Mandalorian walked off towards the checkpoint behind her. The Veteran placed the bread in a pocket, along with the knife, which turned out to have a retractable blade that sank into the sheath and continued on.

The figures watched from a distance as the Veteran headed into the small grove of trees, crossing the wheatfields to do so.

They could not be seen, of course. Their Force cloaks prevented that.

But they were moving ever closer to her. This was the one. The one they sensed the taint on, the one they had observed last night, kidnapping a soldier.

It would be easy to inform the military. Have her dragged off and leave the primary target alone, but it had been specified that the military was just to keep their targets movements restricted. The actual handling of the targets were to be carried out by them. If they failed, someone would take their place.

But it was too early to strike. It would have to be when the ritual was on the verge of completion.

So they watched...


End file.
